


i like my body when it is with your body

by orphan_account



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexuality, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Masturbation, Relationship Negotiation, Steve explaining his asexuality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-17
Updated: 2015-11-17
Packaged: 2018-05-02 01:10:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5228144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky crosses a line of intimacy but Steve brings him back with open arms and a patient heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i like my body when it is with your body

**Author's Note:**

> This piece has been a labor of love for nearly ten months. What began as a lighthearted piece with Steve walking in on Bucky grew into something close to my heart (and my own struggles with asexuality). I wanted to see more people on the ace spectrum writing Steve as asexual and took it upon myself to write what I had been looking for for months. I owe the deepest of thanks for the cheerleading and constructive criticism from [Ashlee](http://airafleeza.tumblr.com/) and [Dana](http://pricklecat.tumblr.com/), as well as the continuous support of everyone on twitter who encouraged me when I complained about losing my momentum. This can be read as a stand-alone piece but it does take place in the same timeline as '[the way we look like animals'](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2349476).
> 
> Title from [e.e. cummings' "i like my body when it is with your."](http://writersalmanac.publicradio.org/index.php?date=2009/10/14)

Bucky remembered the wanting. He remembered Steve’s body, pale and slender on their Brooklyn bed. He didn’t remember what came next. He remembered the wanting but didn’t know what to do with the need which tugged at the pit of his stomach sometimes. Bucky woke with a start, legs kicking in his sleep as he chased the tail end of another foggy dream. Eyes bleary, Bucky struggled to sit upright. Kneaded at the sore muscle in his neck. Steve shifted under the sheets at his side and Bucky froze.

Steve’s broad (bare) shoulders and arched back and the dip of his navel were exposed to the cool air of their bedroom. Goosebumps on the plane of Steve’s stomach. Steve stretched out on his side and Bucky watched the play of muscles in Steve’s arms. Bucky felt his pulse jump. Felt his hands clench in the sheets. Felt the wanting sear through his blood. He slipped his palm across the fitted cotton sheet and felt a cold sense of wrongness. Steve was asleep. Steve was a light sleeper but trusted Bucky enough to sleep deeply in their bed. Bucky rushed to get his feet on the ground and tugged all of the blankets wrapped around (and between) his legs.

Before his eyes opened, Steve’s hands reached out and grabbed Bucky’s wrist.

“Buck? What’s wrong?” Steve’s voice was muffled into his pillow. “Time is it?”

“Did we ever do this before?”

He startled himself with the abruptness of the question. Bucky watched confusion filter across Steve’s face: brow furrowed, lips quirked, nose wrinkled. His fingers tightened on Bucky’s forearm.

“Do what?”

“This.”

“I know you don’t mean holding hands in the dark.”

“But we _did_ do that.”

“All the time,” Steve agreed, lacing their fingers together. “On nights when you were out at the dance halls I would sleep with— with my hands between my thighs to keep them warm.”

Bucky’s stomach flipped. He felt the wanting settle deep into the cradle of his hips. “Did you ever—?”

His mouth and throat went dry. He glanced wide-eyed at Steve who started to blush across his soft (shaven) cheeks, across his freckled shoulders, along the valley of his breastbone. This was something they never talked about. Bucky knew this was important. There was something significant in avoiding the topic. They slept in the same bed. They held each other at night and kissed with the syrupy contentment of relearning each other after so many years. But they never talked about sex.

“No,” Steve croaked, fingers tugging at Bucky’s. “I never. Never did. Not while thinking about—”

Bucky’s eyes fell to his lap. Immediately felt guilty because he thought about—

“I never thought about anyone but that doesn’t mean—” Steve’s voice wavered. “Doesn’t mean I never rang my own bell.”

Bucky swallowed. Refused to look at Steve. Shifted nervously on the mattress, stiffening in his boxers. Steve cleared his throat and Bucky knew he was sweeping his bangs (growing out long again) across his forehead. An old nervous habit. Bucky had made Steve nervous. Bucky needed to leave. Bucky scrambled to get out bed. Steve called out, fingernails scraping on the back of his hand. His name sounded heavy in Steve’s mouth. Bucky curled in on himself. Shoulders hunched, elbows to his chest, hands buried in his hair, chin tucked into his chest.

“Buck, please.”

Steve dragged the comforter over them both as he wrapped his arm around Bucky’s shoulder, hand flat to his chest. Steve’s indulgent mouth on the side of his throat. Steve’s silence was never unsettling or expecting. Bucky knew this silence. His way of begging Bucky to open up. To say something. Anything.

“Did we ever have sex?”

He felt Steve pause. Felt Steve kiss his throat again. Bucky tilted his hips (and his persistent erection) away from Steve. Bucky remembered sex with women with pinned hair and soft skirts. Bucky remembered sex with men as they bit their lips to keep quiet. Bucky remembered intimacy with Steve, clinging desperately to each other in the wool of their coats on the sparse arrangements of an army tent. Limbs wound together on narrow cots while they ran their fingers over each other’s faces. Steve tracing the dark circles under his eyes. The fading scars along his chest and ribs. The rapid beat of his heart in his sunken chest.

“I should remember. I know I should have known. Not even during the war?”

“Not even then. But I loved you so deep. You were it for me. Buck, I would have walked to Austria for you.”

Bucky choked out a rueful laugh. “What about Peg? You two could have gotten away from it all. Ended the war and started a family.”

Steve sighed against his back, hands gripping at the plating of his left arm. Fingers tracing the star by memory.

“Would’ve taken more than the two of us to stop Hitler.”

“You know what I mean,” Bucky groused. “You loved her.”

“I did.”

“And I was invisible.”

The hand on his chest flexed, fingers curling. Bucky wondered if he should remember this. If they had the same argument seventy years ago when they were young and at war together rather than after surviving a war against each other.

“No, Buck, never,” Steve crooned against his hairline. Tucked his ankle between Bucky’s.

Bucky tried to twist away but Steve’s palms swept across his back. Steve’s lips brushed feather light on the knots of muscle along the join of his arm to his organic body. Steve’s thumbs traced the ridges of his ribs and his blood rushed south again. Bucky tried to drag Steve’s hands away from his (sensitive) sides.

“I loved you both.”

“Did you two—?”

Steve chuckled, “Fondue?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Bucky had to roll to face Steve then, laughing easily into the arm pillowed beneath his head.

“Sorry, sorry,” Steve gasped, rubbing a hand across his face. “Something between Howard and Peggy— Oh.”

Bucky grimaced. Buried his face in the pillow. Felt Steve (inconspicuously) twist away from Bucky’s hips pressed against his thigh. He apologized, the words frantic and uncertain. Pulled his knees to his chest. Steve wrapped his hands around Bucky’s calves and tugged him closer, shins to Steve’s chest. They tipped their foreheads together. Bucky sighed, breath ruffling his hair. Laughter quieting, Steve squeezed Bucky’s calves.

“There was never anything more than romance between Peg and I.”

“But there could have been,” Bucky grumbled.

“Listen to me,” Steve said, right hand tangled in Bucky’s hair. “There really couldn’t have been. Not in the way people would have expected back then.”

“You would have been war heroes and national icons.”

“Buck.”

“You could have had a bunch of feisty sons—”

“ _Bucky_.”

“And a daughter you could have named after your mother—”

“I never slept with Peggy and I never wanted to because I don’t want to sleep with anyone.”

Bucky flattened his hands against Steve’s chest. Squinted at him in the dim light. Fingers still carding through his hair, Steve looked genuinely serious. His jaw was set. His eyes downcast. His lips white with nervousness.

“Oh,” Bucky breathed.

Steve rolled onto his back, carefully arranging Bucky to lie across his chest. Ear to Steve’s heart, Bucky listened to him make attempts to explain (like putting his ear to a sea shell, blood rushing and echoing back in waves).

“I thought it was my fault that we’d never had sex,” Bucky said, immediately feeling a hot wash of guilt. “Thought I’d said something. Or done something wrong.”

“None of this is your fault. It never was, Buck,” Steve reassured him. “Natasha finally asked the right questions after trying for months to set me up on dates. It’s— It’s easier to say you aren’t interested or are too busy than to try to explain that Captain America is asexual.”

Bucky could hear the way Steve’s heart pounded in his chest. The hesitation in his voice as he admitted something so personal, so guarded. Bucky wedged his arms beneath himself and pressed a gentle kiss to the slope of his throat. His hair tumbled over his shoulder. Brushed against Steve’s face. Steve mouthed at Bucky’s chin until Bucky pressed an equally tender kiss to Steve’s upper lip.

“Try me.”

“It,” Steve began. Hummed in thought. “It isn’t always the same for each person. There’s a spectrum. But the long and short of it is that I don’t feel sexual attraction.”

Bucky let his head rest on Steve’s chest again. Steve drew a deep breath and Bucky wondered if they had done this before. Faintly remembered fitful sleep in a trench somewhere, his cheek rocking with the rise of fall of Steve’s chest.

“So is this a problem for you?”

“N-no! No,” Steve sighed. “This is what I meant with how it means different things for different people. Being asexual doesn’t always mean this sort of closeness is uncomfortable.”

“But it is for some people? Like how Nat doesn’t like kissing?”

Lips still resting in Bucky’s hair, Steve smiled. Bucky felt the movement against his scalp. Unconsciously pressed himself closer to Steve.

“It’s like tuning a radio. Sometimes what comes in as good for one person is static and uncomfortable for someone else. I like kissing. I like being close to you in bed. I like when you touch me.”

Steve’s voice had gone small. Bucky propped himself up on his elbows again.

“Like this?” Bucky asked before he grabbed at Steve’s sides. Sent Steve into breathless laughter as he flinched away from Bucky’s hands.

“Jerk,” he gasped, pinning Bucky to the mattress.

With Steve sitting on his thighs Bucky suddenly remembered his situation earlier. How Steve had just said he felt no sexual attraction. Bucky bit the inside of his cheek. Stared up at Steve. He was suddenly grateful for his patience as they tumbled across their bed.

“Steve, I—” Bucky failed to find the words he wanted, mouth open and lip curling (Steve used to tell him to “quit it before you start catching flies with that mouth”). “You know I never expected anything? I never—”

“You’re fine,” Steve said with uncanny timing, patting Bucky’s hip. Adjusted the waistband of Bucky’s sleep pants. “Stark likes to joke about me being virginal but sex doesn’t scare me. I just don’t want to have it.”

“Don’t ever bring up Stark while we’re in bed,” Bucky groaned, covering his face with his hands.

Steve’s palms curled and uncurled around his upper arms. “So is this a problem for you?”

Startled by his own question being asked of him, Bucky grunted.

“I don’t want sex,” Steve continued, “and I probably never will.”

“I love you and you mean more than sex does. You hear me?” Bucky wondered if Steve had ever had to explain himself to others before him. He felt his heart break as Steve’s face crumpled. “Come here, you punk.”

Steve tucked his face into the (smooth, flesh) cradle of Bucky’s shoulder and Bucky knew. He knew by the way Steve’s shoulders went limp. By the way Steve’s arms and legs tightened around him. By the way Steve’s eyes were wet that Steve had waited an age and a day to tell him something so vulnerable and personal and concealed. He knew it was a secret Steve must have carried for decades. Bucky suddenly knew that all of the double dates and the outings to the dance hall and the night at the Stark Expo were Steve trying to navigate in an age where men were expected to be strong and brave and have charming sons of their own.

“If this is enough for you, hell, Stevie, it can be enough for me. You said I was it for you—” Steve nodded against his shoulder. “I always came back to you. Always brought me home like the goddamn North Star.”

“It might have been the shield,” Steve mumbled into Bucky’s neck.

“You never had a gaudy uniform when you were a ninety pound spitfire with a curved spine and hardly any hearing in one ear,” Bucky laughed.

He stroked his hand down the wide span of Steve’s back. Raked his metal fingers (gently) across the skin, raising goosebumps as he went. He could feel Steve’s fingers toying with his long hair fanned across their pillows. Steve yawned and settled heavily on Bucky’s chest.

“Thank you.”

Bucky craned his neck to see Steve better. “What for? Stevie?”

Best as he could with Steve (quietly snoring), lying prone across his body, Bucky tugged at the bed sheets and comforter. Pulled the covers over them both. Moved his right hand from under his own head (where it was sure to fall asleep) and smoothed Steve’s hair across his forehead. Within their poorly constructed nest of blankets, Bucky watched the flicker of Steve’s eyelashes slow and listened to the rush of Steve’s slow breathing.

He glanced at the dark edges of the skyline outside their window. Let his eyes slip shut and wondered if Steve would remembering thanking him in the morning.

* * *

 

Steve and Bucky navigated around each other like ships bobbing at the docks: occasionally colliding in moments of uncertainty and negotiation. Whereas once Bucky had gone about his day without thinking twice about how they shared their space, now he was suddenly aware that he always left the shower wearing nothing but a towel knotted around his hips. He started taking clothes into the bathroom with him.

He felt himself drift away one afternoon while towelling his hair. Bucky remembered Brooklyn and a tiny washroom at the end of a hallway. Showering in the evenings, washing away the sweat and grime and soot of the day from working in factories and warehouses.

He flinched at hands on his shoulders. Fingers sliding along the (damp) jersey clinging to his back. Steve’s chin digging into his neck.

“Been knocking on the door for five minutes, Buck,” he huffed. Pressed a kiss to Bucky’s neck. “You all right in here?”

“Just fine.” He tried to duck away. Surreptitiously checked the waistband of his sweatpants.

Steve’s hands gripped his forearms. Turned Bucky to face him (despite Bucky desperately attempting to avoid the knowing look on Steve’s face).

“Are you hiding from me?”

Bucky shrugged away.

“Hey, Buck—”

“I’m trying to make this work!”

Even as the words left his mouth he knew they were the wrong. He backed away and into the door frame (wooden door swinging free and open). Steve made an aborted attempt to reach for him. Bucky noticed the hesitation in the way Steve’s hands clenched and the way his shoulders rounded.

“It was working just fine before.”

“I didn’t want—” Bucky wrapped his hair into a knot. Water creeped into the collar of his shirt and chilled against his skin. “Didn’t want—”

“To what?”

“To scare you awa—”

Steve’s arms wrapped around him before he could protest. He grunted. Felt his hair coming undone at the base of his skull. Felt Steve’s lips grazing the curve of his ear.

“You think your body is going to scare me away?” Steve’s hands were light on Bucky’s shoulders. Holding him close. “It’s just skin. It’s just you. Remember when we talked about this last month?”

Bucky scratched the back of his knee with the opposite foot. “You thanked me and fell asleep.”

“Right, I—” Steve’s arms tightened around him. Bucky felt Steve’s fingers drag through his hair (tangling when Steve’s hand jerked with surprise). “I fell asleep?”

Bucky laughed, incredulous. Sagged into Steve. “So, what for? Why’d you thank me?”

“For asking the right questions.”

“Oh.”

“'Oh,' is right,” Steve said. “So why aren’t you asking now? Why are you assuming I’d mind?”

Bucky bit his lip. Butted their foreheads together. Twisted his hands in Steve’s grip and tugged Steve into the hall. To their bedroom. Sat heavily on their bed. Steve dragged his fingers along the part in Bucky’s (drying but still damp) hair. Pressed his lips between Bucky’s eyebrows.

“I don’t know what to do.”

“Talk to me.”

“I _am_.”

“No,” Steve said while pinching Bucky’s thigh. “Talk to me when you don’t know what to do. Ask me. Right now.”

“Ask what?”

“About your shower.”

Bucky took a deep breath. Steeled himself. “Does it make you uncomfortable? When I don’t wear a shirt?”

“No. Your body by itself isn’t sexual, Buck,” Steve reassured. Clapped a hand on the back of Bucky’s neck. Drew him in closer. “Now, if you were to walk around naked as the day you were born, draping yourself on across all of the furniture—”

They dissolved into laughter and tumbled back onto the bed. Catching his breath, Bucky propped himself up on one elbow. Prodded at Steve’s side with one knee.

“You mean it, then?”

“Of course I do,” Steve sighed. Caught Bucky’s knee in his big palm. “It doesn’t bother me. Besides, I know how much you hate dressing as soon as you get out of the water. You always did. Said it made you feel too tight. Like you were trapped in your skin like a lizard.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really,” Steve said. “I’ll always let you know if something makes me uneasy.”

“You’re not telling me to walk around in my birthday suit now, are you?”

Steve chuckled and shoved Bucky’s knee away. “This is our home, but what would the neighbors think? You answering the door like that?”

“We would stop getting solicitors.”

Steve spluttered and laughed until tears rolled down his cheeks. Bucky nosed at Steve’s throat. Mouthed at his Adam’s apple, feeling Steve’s vocal chords move beneath the skin. He knew he had done right. Steve could fake a smile or a laugh but never the hiccups he got when he laughed too hard for his lungs to catch up with his mirth.

Bucky began making a separate list with columns for things Steve liked and disliked.

“Good” was talking about these things with Steve. “Bad” was assuming Steve’s reactions. “Good” was falling asleep, lying on top of each other. “Bad” was waking Steve up by sliding a hand around his waist and cupping his hip. “Bad” was slipping a hand into Steve’s back pocket when they were out in public. “Good” was the gratefulness on Steve’s face when Bucky promised to keep his hands to himself until Steve took his hand and laced their fingers together.

Eventually they managed to wander into more territory that Steve considered neutral than Bucky expected. This discovery prompted Bucky to categorize situations for himself (a list he kept private, tucked away from Steve’s earnest concern and doting gaze). Even while Steve reassured him that he was indifferent to these things, Bucky felt as if he was crossing a line. Waking up with one leg thrown over Steve’s calves, grinding his morning erection into Steve’s hip was “neutral” for Steve but mortifying for Bucky. Kissing until the air between them was heavy and humid and Steve’s fingertips dug just right into Bucky’s was “good” for Bucky until he had to pry himself away from Steve. Forgetting to close the bedroom door while he masturbated because he was convinced he was alone in the apartment was nowhere _near_ the territory of “good.”

Bucky had been assigned on a covert weapons reconnaissance mission, leading a team in Belize. After a week of trailing arms dealers in temperatures climbing into triple digits, Bucky had plans. He was determined to shower away Central American grit and sweat until the hot water ran out and then sleep for three days (or until Steve came home from his own assignment). He failed to account for the reminders of Steve throughout the apartment. His mug in the sink. His sketchbook left open on the armchair. His sleep clothes tossed into the laundry hamper. Bucky stripped out of his field gear as he lingered at the foot of the bed. Dropped the leather and canvas and kevlar gear by the dresser. Yanked his undershirt over his head.

For a moment, Bucky considered washing up first. Glanced toward the bathroom. Twisted the shirt in his hands. His knuckles grazed his stomach and Bucky flinched. Felt his toes curl in the carpet. Felt his heart rate climbing in anticipation. After letting down his hair, Bucky dropped the undershirt. Smoothed his palms down his stomach. A nervous laugh bubbled from his chest as he unbuckled his pants and kicked them off. Knee-walking across the mattress, he palmed the front of his shorts (Steve always gave him hell for how tight the shorts were but Bucky got the last word when he wasn’t the one complaining about chafing from his uniform).

Sitting back on his calves, Bucky scratched his fingernails up his thighs. He blinked drowsily at the pillows propped against the headboard as he rubbed his thumbs along the ridges of his hipbones. Steve must not have slept well the night before he left with the team. The comforter was untucked from the foot of the mattress and thrown over the tangled sheets. Bucky gathered the quilted comforter to his chest. Gasped a desperate, whining breath into the fabric as he rocked back on his heels. Feet tucked beneath himself, he inhaled the faint smells of their sweat and the new fabric softener Steve used in their laundry. Bucky wedged the bundle between his legs.

As if all of his tender spots were awoken at once, Bucky’s heels shifted and pulled the comforter taught from his chest to his cock. Breath punched from his lungs, Bucky whimpered into the comforter and curled in on himself. Hunched over his knees, hips working against the fabric. He slipped a hand down his stomach (fingers clenching at the waistband of his shorts). Clenched his eyes shut against the heavy guilt that he was masturbating to the thought of Steve in their bed, warm and pliant in his drowsy adoration. Metal plates shifting, recalibrating, his left arm tensed as his hips rocked more insistently. His fingers tightened in the comforter, threads creaking with the strain. Another breathless gasp. He flipped his hair away from his face, cheek pressed to the mattress, shoulders rolled forward and chest flush to the bed sheets. Muscles in his hips and thighs beginning to burn with exertion. Fingers of his right hand light over the hair trailing from his navel and beneath the elastic of his waistband.

Sweat beaded along his hairline, under his arms, between his shoulder blades. Bucky hesitated before dipping his hand into his shorts. He grunted, hips stilling as his cock slipped against his fingers. Damp heat with his sweat and precome. Legs trembling, he rolled his hips to work his palm against the head of his cock. (His shoulders began to ache, the metal in his back protesting being contorted in such a way.) Panting nonsensical bitten-off syllables into the bed, Bucky felt the tell-tale pressure building low in the base of his spine. He let out a garbled curse (hair stuck to his lips again) and let his hips rock faster with urgency.

Bucky thought it was odd that he heard the echo of Steve’s voice calling his name. He froze when it became apparent he was not having a flashback or a minor fugue episode. Steve’s laugh carried from the living room, steps heavy down the hall. Hand curled around his cock, Buck realized his escape options were limited. He moved to slip into the bathroom before Steve could find him but in his haste, Bucky ground his hips into the cradle of his palm.

“Oh, _God_ ,” he groaned.

Steve opened the bedroom door. Bucky yelped and fell off the side of the bed in a tangle of bedsheets and limbs. His face burned as he watched the lovestruck excitement fade from Steve’s face. Bucky knew the trail of clothes leading to their room was incriminating but the heavy smell of sex in the air would leave no doubt in Steve’s mind. Adjusting his shorts (under the privacy of the comforter), Bucky watched the blush of Steve’s skin work up his collar, to his ears, and across his cheeks. Bucky watched Steve’s hand clutch the doorknob.

“I was just—” Steve faltered. Cleared his throat. “I was going to— Just. I’ll give you a minute.”

Once the door shut behind Steve, Bucky could hear Natasha’s demanding to know why they left dishes in their sink if they both knew they would be away from the apartment. Their voices dissolved into good humored bickering. Bucky pulled himself up by the edge of the mattress, standing on shaking legs, cock still very much interested in finishing what Bucky had started. Gathering the thin cotton sheet around his shoulders, he tugged on the fitted sheet until the elastic gave way (pillows spilling onto the floor) and released over the corners of the mattress. He dragged the armful of fabric into the bathroom with him and kicked shut the door.

With perhaps a bit too much force, Bucky cranked at the shower faucets. Considered a cold shower until he ran his hands through his hair again. Sand and grease and dried blood. He was a mess. No amount of self discipline was worth subjecting Steve to his post mission state. Hoping the steam would help dissipate the still noticeable scent of being caught with his hands on himself, Bucky kicked off his compression shorts and ducked into the shower. He let the water pound against his shoulders. Let the water soak his hair until it clung to his cheeks and neck.

He tried to not think about Steve as he kneaded his scalp with the shampoo Natasha teased him for spending so much money on. He tried not to think about Steve as he shifted his arm beneath the warm spray of water, rinsing between the metal plates. He tried not to think about Steve until he lathered the soap against his chest and thumbed his nipple. Bucky inhaled a hissing breath through his teeth. Flipped his hair out of his eyes and nearly missed the shelf in his eagerness to return the soap to its dish by the shampoo. Leaning heavily against the wall, Bucky ghosted his right palm down his stomach. Resolutely told himself not to think of Steve before taking his cock in hand again. Bucky wondered if he had been vocal in bed before the war. He wondered if his stomach and the insides of his thighs had always been so sensitive. He wondered if he had ever been in love as deeply as he was with Steve.

“Shit, _shit_ , oh, shit,” he gasped, knees buckling inward.

Surprised by his own orgasm, Bucky slid against the wall as his hips jerked. He felt betrayed by his own body. He turned off the hot water, sudden iciness chasing away his syrupy afterglow. Bucky shuddered and shut off both taps. Blinking water from his lashes, he ran his palm over his face. Reached blindly for a towel to wrap around himself. No matter what Steve had said in the past, it was probably not wise to be anything less than fully dressed before leaving the bedroom.

Bucky began toweling the water from his hair as he kicked the (steamed and slightly damp) bed sheets back into their room. Quickly tugging on clean underwear and sweatpants, he laid the sheets flat against the mattress to dry. Considered waiting for Natasha to leave before approaching Steve. Considered how Natasha might already have inferred what happened and was waiting for Bucky to be the bigger person. Hiding was not an option. Hair dried to his liking, Bucky shrugged into an undershirt (one of Steve’s clean gym shirts) and left the bedroom door open behind him.

Natasha’s throaty laugh carried down the hall as Bucky padded into the living room. Draped across the sofa, Steve’s head resting on her thighs and her fingers picking dried blood from his hair, Natasha tipped her chin toward Bucky.

“Steve, haul yourself up here,” she chided. “We have company.”

Knees pulled to his chest, Steve glanced up at Bucky through his eyelashes. Bucky’s throat felt tight. Steve shuffled his feet across the empty cushion.

“Warming it up for me?” Bucky laughed. He could only hope it didn’t sound hollow.

“Only because you’re spoiled as hell.”

Steve prodded him in the side with his feet when Bucky finally sat down. Eyebrows tipped in concern, Steve kneaded his toes against Bucky’s thigh.

“Яша?”

Bucky caught Natasha’s pointed look from over Steve’s head.

“Хочешь, я уйду?”

Bucky scowled at Steve’s feet in his lap. “Нет, подожди.”

“Расскажи что случилось?” Her fingers slowly carded through Steve’s hair. Bucky went still, waiting. “Он не хочет.”

Bucky pursed his lips. Exhaled through his nose. Shook his head (almost) imperceptibly. Natasha sighed and turned toward the movie playing quietly on the television.

Still hesitant to initiate touch with Steve, Bucky draped his left arm over the back of the couch and leaned heavily on the armrest to his right. Bucky felt himself being lulled by the steady drone of the refrigerator behind them. He watched the film blankly, watching but not following the story. He heard Natasha ask Steve a question and heard the response, but he did not process. He flinched when he felt the pressure of someone gripping his fingers, sensors in the metal hand waking up as Steve’s thumb swept over his knuckles. Bucky settled back into his seat. Let Steve drag his arm into his lap and toy idly with the plates of his fingers and palm.

* * *

Nights passed and still Bucky avoided being the first to address the thing that had happened between him and Steve. Every time he felt compelled to apologize — because a line had been crossed and Bucky knew it — the words fell flat as he rehearsed in the mirror, brushing his teeth. He couldn’t remember how he used to do this, apologize to Steve, when the fault was undeniably his own.

Bucky ran a hand through his hair, leaning against the refrigerator and watching Steve make dinner. It was hardly the ideal moment, Steve stirring ground beef in a pan so it would brown evenly. When he reached for the pepper and Italian seasoning, Steve glanced at Bucky and gave him a smile so small (and vulnerable) that Bucky pushed off from the cool metal against his bare arm. He moved to help with the meal. Bucky hooked his chin over Steve’s shoulder and sighed. Reached for the box of pasta and read the back.

“You’re awful quiet, Buck.” Steve shrugged his shoulders, gently jostling Bucky’s head. Bucky let out a soft laugh into the cotton of Steve’s shirt against his lips. “You afraid of me?”

Steve flipped a spoonful of meat in the pan and Bucky watched the flex of muscles up Steve’s arm. Ripping open the box of pasta, Bucky snorted and dumped penne into the boiling water Steve had waiting on the stove. Steve elbowed him in the ribs. Bucky snorted (louder and more peevishly for Steve’s benefit) and stirred the pot gently.

“Could never be afraid of you, you big lug.”

“Don’t let it stick to the bottom,” Steve said, voice low as he reached for Bucky’s hand. Fingers curled together on the handle of the slotted spoon, Bucky leaned into Steve’s shoulder. Steve nosed at Bucky’s hair.

“Stevie, I— Steve, I’m sorry.” Bucky prodded at the bubbles forming in the water. Sighed and rubbed his jaw nervously. “Christ, this is horrible timing.”

“It really isn’t, Buck, trust me,” Steve turned the ground beef over again. It sizzled on the pan. “Honestly, I’d rather be doing something productive while we talk. Makes it easier to know what I’m supposed to be doing with my hands.”

“And holding mine is helping?”

Steve bumped their foreheads together and huffed a laugh into Bucky’s temple. Bucky stirred through the water clouding with starch. Rubbed the back of his neck with his empty palm. They stood silently, propped against each other, in the midst of the kitchen noises. Bucky picked bits of seasoned meat from the pan and ate as he stirred. Steve filched the spoon back and fished out a noodle. He popped it into his mouth without blowing on it. Gasped and laughed when it burned his tongue.

Once the stove was turned off, the meals dished out, plates filled with pasta and greens (asparagus pulled from the oven where it baked in garlic and parmesean), and bodies settled down to eat at the sofa, Bucky watched Steve tuck into his dinner. Bucky felt a lingering sense of shame. He stabbed at a forkful of pasta and marinara sauce, and waited for Steve to finish his sip of milk.

“What’s on your mind—” Steve asked as Bucky said, “You’ve got to know—”

Steve nodded, encouraging Bucky, and took another drink. Bucky fussed with his napkin. Tore at the edges.

“I never meant for you to walk in on that,” he admitted, carefully avoiding Steve’s eye. “I should have just gone in the damn shower—”

“Buck, I know I can’t stop you but I won’t—” Steve cleared his throat and pushed asparagus along the curve of the plate, “I won’t say this is fine. I didn’t want this to be a problem but—” Bucky opened his mouth to object, “hold on, but apparently I should’ve been clearer. You’re my best guy, but— Buck, I can’t give you what you want.”

Choking slightly on his mouthful of food, Bucky chased it down with milk. Blinked at Steve whose cheeks were red with frustration. Bucky might not have remembered how to apologize to Steve but he still remembered how to read Steve’s blushing cheeks. Before he could question Steve, Bucky edged closer on the couch so their knees touched. Facing each other, sitting with legs crossed, felt so childlike in the midst of their situation that Bucky felt shaken.

“Steve, I want _you_.”

“That’s the problem. I don’t _want_ like that.”

Bucky hastily set his plate down on the floor. Reached out for Steve’s and set it aside as well. Holding his arms out, Bucky moved to gather Steve close but was caught off guard when Steve slumped against his chest. Folded over their crossed legs, Steve hunched his shoulders. Bucky let his hands rest there. Traced the wings of Steve’s shoulder blades. Scratched at his back.

“I know you don’t,” Bucky admitted after some time. Steve’s hands wrapped around Bucky’s ankles and his thumbs rubbed at the soft skin.

“It isn’t just that.”

“Rarely is.”

Steve snorted and pushed Bucky away halfheartedly. Rearranging themselves, elbows and knees in the way, Bucky laid back while Steve settled between Bucky’s legs. On his stomach, Steve propped his elbows on either side of Bucky’s waist.

Bucky slid his fingertips up Steve’s temples and into his hair. “Tell me?”

Chin dropping to Bucky’s chest (Bucky held back a yelp), Steve glanced up at Bucky from beneath his lashes. Steve was still bony in certain places but his chin was the worst. He took a deep breath and Bucky felt his stomach clench with expectation.

“It’s not just about not feeling sexual attraction. It’s—” Steve grunted. Leaned past Bucky and picked food from their plates with his fingers. Bucky watched Steve’s face go calm with thoughtfulness as he ate. “It’s about being in control. Control sounds a bit— commanding. I don’t know, Buck, I’ve never had to explain this to anyone else.”

Bucky stole a noodle from Steve’s hand. Chewed it slowly while Steve glowered at him.

“No one else?”

“It’s—” Steve shifted, elbows brushing against Bucky’s waist (making the muscles jump as Bucky flinched), “I’m the one who's always been taught this stuff. Or I was with people who already understand. Like Nat and Sam.”

“Well, who taught _you_?” Bucky asked, letting his palms sweep across Steve’s back. Up Steve’s neck to ruffle his hair against the grain, scratching at the shaved-close places behind Steve’s ears.

Steve let his forehead drop to Bucky’s chest, sighing against Bucky’s breastbone, breath warming Bucky’s skin through his cotton shirt.

“It was part of a reintegration course that SHIELD gave me. Kind of a crash course in history, to be honest,” Steve admitted. “Nat sat in with me through quite a bit of it. It helped to have a neutral party there so it didn’t feel as much like a dressing-down.” He reached back, scratching at the base of his skull, knuckles knocking against Bucky’s fingers. “They gave me key events of the centuries. Politics. Wars. Which countries hosted the Olympics. Pop culture references.”

“Sounds swell.” Bucky pushed Steve’s hair back from his forehead. Let it go. Pushed it back again.

Steve propped himself up on his elbows, laid his hands on Bucky’s chest (Bucky forced himself to remain still as Steve’s fingers prodded the muscle trying to make himself comfortable like a dog settling down to sleep), and lowered his head, resting his chin on his own wrists.

“It was.” Steve groused and Bucky could almost hear him rolling his eyes. “Especially once Hill brought up the sexual revolutions of the Sixties through the Eighties.”

“How so?”

“It was almost as if, I don’t know,” Steve grumbled. Bucky fed him more asparagus. “As if the other agents expected me to be shocked. I had to remind them that that I was there for the Twenties. And that we grew up in New York. We weren’t exactly isolated from queer culture. Attitudes towards sex may have changed since before the war, but I still wasn’t interested.”

Bucky shifted again, adjusting his head on the armrest. Rolled his left shoulder so the metal joints settled more naturally. “What’d they have to say about that?”

“It was hard— trying to explain something you don’t know the name of. I was talking myself in circles. But Nat was the one who asked the right questions. Got me on the right track. She and Hill told me that the majority of research done on asexuality had been done while I was still under. And that a lot of that research was outdated. Bucky, there wasn’t even an asexual pride flag until the year before they dragged me out of the ice.”

“A what flag?”

“Pride flag. So people who identify with the community have a symbol to associate with.”

“Sounds patriotic.”

“Not quite as iconic as the ol’ red, white, and blue though.”

“You said so yourself,” Bucky reminded him, kissing Steve’s hairline and forehead, “it sounds like this is still fairly new territory. Symbols take time— or something big— before they’re recognized.”

Steve pushed himself up, kneeling between Bucky’s thighs, and tugged on the pillow beneath Bucky’s shoulders.

“I am not coming out publically yet!”

“Never said that! But could you imagine?”

“Bucky, no,” Steve laughed, swatting at Bucky with the pillow.

“Captain America,” Bucky fanned out his fingers in an arc, “the ‘A’ is for ‘asexual.’”

“As I was _saying_ ,” Steve asserted, smacking Bucky in earnest now (Bucky shielded his face with his forearms). “I use the internet, Buck. There are decades of speculation about my sexuality. About us. I don’t have a sensational online presence for those reasons alone. Pepper and Agent Hill have a public relations team doing damage control for things like that.”

“So,” Bucky hooked his arm around Steve’s back and tried to wrestle the pillow from him, “do they have interns doing all the Twitter grunt work for you? Post about late night talk show interviews and charity events? Maintain your wholesome baseball and apple pie reputation?” (Bucky dodged another pillow blow to the face.) “While you do, what? Research your nights away on public forums for marginalized sexuality communities?”

Steve sat back on his heels. “That’s actually not too far off.”

Noticing the crease between Steve’s eyebrows, Bucky felt as if he should have known the answer sooner. He moved to gather Steve back to his chest but Steve gripped Bucky’s shoulders, locking his arms, and maintaining distance between them. Steve grimaced. His gaze slid away from Bucky’s. Landed shy of the stretched-out collar of Bucky’s henley.

“Remember—” Steve’s voice wavered and Bucky felt the back of his neck go cold with caution.

“Remember what I told you about needing to feel control with sexualized situations?” He seemed to be waiting for a response and only continued once Bucky nodded. “Being a recognizable public figure means having to navigate reporters and those talk show hosts asking questions to get a reaction from me. It means having fans. Some of those fans are artists that would put eight-pagers to shame.”

Bucky whistled.

“It isn’t even just current fans. Being under the ice for that long means suddenly— being exposed to quite a bit of—,” Steve sighed heavily. “Hill warned me to tread carefully before I started researching myself.”

“Should I even ask what you found?” Bucky felt Steve’s back and shoulders stiffen before his jaw even clenched. “You don’t have to—”

Steve’s eyes were steely. “Don’t ask me about it.”

“I won’t.”

“Please, don’t ask me again.”

“Hey, I promise. Stevie, hey, c’mon. C’mere,” Bucky did tug Steve back to his chest then and cradled the back of Steve’s head. Pressed a kiss to the crease between Steve’s eyebrows. Steve mumbled into Bucky’s shirt. “What was that?”

“I said,” Steve glanced up at Bucky, cheeks flushed, “you always look handsome though.”

“Do I, now?”

“There’s always such attention to detail when people draw your chin.”

“It’s very striking.”

Steve’s fingers crept along the edge of Bucky’s jaw but gentle the tenderness of the touch left Bucky unprepared for when Steve pressed his thumb to the cleft of his chin.

“I can’t tell you what not to fantasize about, but it makes me—”

Bucky’s fingers clenched against Steve’s back, the plates in his palm realigning. He chewed on his bottom lip.

“I can’t stand it,” Steve laughed bitterly. “It isn’t even the lack of control. It’s having the choice denied.”

“What d’you mean?” Bucky rubbed his knuckles at the base of Steve’s neck.

“Having that sort of submission— I know it’s not real, but that passiveness. Being used—”

Bucky felt his heart rate kick. Felt sweat under his arms. He waited until Steve settled back against his chest before clearing his throat. Bucky felt the guilt return but also knew he had to tread carefully. Bucky had known Steve was uncomfortable but being reminded of that loss of agency made his throat tight.

“What if,” Bucky asked (Steve moved against his chest and Bucky’s breath caught in his stomach). “Wh-what if you weren’t the one giving up control?”

Steve froze against him and Bucky began to cut his losses. “I just—”

“It wouldn’t change anything, Bucky. I’m still— Still asexual.”

“I know. I get that. And I’m not asking you to change but—”

“What _are_ you asking me?” Steve’s response was hushed, concern plain on his face.

“What if I,” Bucky swallowed nervously, “gave up control? For you?”

He watched Steve’s eyebrows rise as he seemed to understand what Bucky was suggesting. He watched Steve’s cheeks and ears flush. Bucky knew full well how daunting the thought of losing autonomy was. Recognizing and regaining that self-government had immediately been “good.” Bucky’s thumbs continued digging into Steve’s back as he made a thoughtful noise.

“I— I don’t know,” Steve said as he reached past Bucky for more (cold) noodles. “I’ve never been given the choice to _be_ in control like that. Some of the USO girls made their intentions pretty clear. So did Private Lorraine.”

Steve looked away. He avoided Bucky’s eye pointedly. This was something Bucky never heard about, not even when he and Steve swapped stories with the Commandos.

“Steve, I’m not asking you for anything you don’t want.” Bucky cradled Steve’s cheek in his palm, feeling the heat from Steve’s face against his skin. “We can talk abou—”

“Maybe I’ll let you watch?”

Bucky’s throat went dry. He gaped at Steve who only blushed more furiously and chewed more thoughtfully. Steve glanced at him from the corner of his eye. He pressed a kiss to Bucky’s palm.

“Y-yeah?” Bucky asked articulately. His left palm swept up and down Steve’s back as if he could coax an answer out of Steve.

Instead, Steve settled onto his chest. Nodded and accidentally knocked his head against Bucky’s chin. They both broke into nervous laughter, Steve propping himself up on one elbow to soothe Bucky’s jaw while Bucky’s grip tightened on Steve’s shirt. Reflex. Habit.

“I can’t make any promises,” Steve sighed, giving him a weak smile.

Bucky’s eyes flicked down to Steve’s mouth before he could stop himself. Steve noticed and chuckled again. Leaned in to kiss Bucky softly. His hand still on Bucky’s jaw, he angled Bucky closer to kiss him again. Bucky went pliant, muscles relaxing as Steve pressed their cheeks together. His exhales tickled in Bucky’s ear. Goosebumps running up his neck, Bucky fought the conflicting impulses to squirm away from and cling more closely. His body seemed to have little difficulty deciding for him that it was very much interested in the proceedings and Bucky froze.

“If, uh, oh,” he stammered, trying to angle his hips away from Steve cradled between his thighs. Bucky draped his arm over his forehead (metal fingers tugging at his own hair). Grimaced.

To his relief, Steve laughed in earnest then, pulled himself up by the back of the couch and untangled their limbs. He gave Bucky’s hip a solid pat and bent to pick up their plates. While Steve was distracted, Bucky scrambled for the pillow and held it over his crotch.

“Sorry for—” he began just as Steve said, “Thank you.”

They stared at each other, cheeks rosy. Bucky looked away first.

“I’m just— I’ll go reheat dinner.”

“Stevie?” He tipped his head backward over the armrest.

“I’ll be right back.” Steve kissed him square between the eyes and headed off to the kitchen.

Bucky stretched, rolled over, and hissed as his hips ground against the couch. Steve would be right back. He wouldn’t mind if Bucky rested his eyes for a few minutes. Nodding off slowly, Bucky listened to Steve’s humming and the sounds of food reheating on the stove until he fell asleep.

* * *

A week passed. They went on a covert mission to Berlin undercover as a couple on a blind date at a bar where their contact would meet them with information about a smuggling ring. Twelve hours later they were on a flight to Melbourne as a couple on their honeymoon. Another four days. They made an appearance at an event in Pasadena funded by Stark Industries to further astrophysics research. Bucky’s palm was clammy and his throat was dry, giving Steve sidelong glances which were genuine now and not part of a character.

Without even having to ask, Steve stayed by his side for the entire evening. He laced his fingers with Bucky’s and negotiated conversations when the subject of Bucky’s still recent assignment as an official field agent veered into thinly veiled criticism. Bucky leaned against Steve’s shoulder, trying to carefully eat an hors d'oeuvres topped with roasted red peppers and mozzarella cheese. Licking balsamic vinaigrette from his bottom lip, Bucky smirked as another lowbrow politician left flustered. Steve tightened his grip on Bucky’s palm. Stroked his thumb across Bucky’s knuckles.

“Eating left-handed is easier where there aren’t any utensils to bend,” Bucky admittedly flippantly.

“That your way of saying you like holding hands with me?”

Bucky shrugged and took another bite. Steve laughed, an open, loud sound that made heads turn.

“This is nice, I guess. When no one’s heckling us,” Bucky sighed, craning his neck to find the server carrying the tray with more of the same hors d'oeuvres. “Doesn’t really help with the social anxiety, or whatever Sam called it.”

He felt Steve freeze at his side. “How’re your meetings going?”

“They’re not really meetings,” he admitted, “more like we have lunch together in his office. He isn’t a therapist. Couldn’t be assigned to me even if he was. Familiarity and all that.” Bucky chewed on the inside of his cheek and continued, “Sam asked if I felt ready to sit in on a few group meetings.”

“What’d you tell him?” Steve asked (trying to sound casual but Bucky could hear the interest in his voice) as he snagged a few tarts from a passing tray.

Bucky took one that looked more like a quiche than a dessert once he saw it up close. “Told him maybe. We’ll see.”

Steve pressed a kiss to his forehead and Bucky nearly choked on his last bite. He had been embarrassed to admit to Steve that the past four months had hardly felt like progress but Steve looked proud of him. Bucky settled into Steve’s side, resting his head on Steve’s shoulder.

“Want to get out of here?” Steve asked, raising his shoulder to jostle Bucky.

“You pick up many girls with that line?”

He had to give Steve credit for being able to make exasperation look fond. Even as Bucky finished his quiche and stole Steve’s, the tenderness on Steve’s face never faltered. Bucky flushed under the doting attention as they said goodnight to Natasha and Pepper, as Steve held his hand over the center console for the drive home, as Steve led him into the apartment and kissed him gently while helping him out of his suit. Curled together in bed, Bucky scrubbed his hand over his face. Steve yawned and threw his arm over Bucky’s chest.

“So,” Bucky asked, “is that the first time that line ever worked?”

Steve rolled off his chest, dragging a blanket with him, and grumbled, “I’ll make you sleep on the couch.”

When Bucky woke suddenly hours later, not realizing he had fallen asleep, Steve had rolled back over to face him. The sun was up but they hadn’t set an alarm the night before. Neither of their phones had gone off with an alert. He recognized the whistling, faint gasp on the inhale that meant Steve was having a stress response. What concerned him was that Steve’s eyes were open but he was staring at the blankets clenched in his fist. Bucky shifted slowly, letting the blankets move to show Steve that he was awake as well. He gripped Steve’s bicep and slid his palm up to Steve’s neck, his fingers digging into the tension he found there.

“Hey, Stevie? Talk to me?”

Steve wriggled closer to rest his head on Bucky’s pillow.

“Remember how,” he whispered, “I said I was only comfortable— If I was in control?”

Bucky’s breath caught in his chest. He cupped the back of Steve’s head in his metal palm. “Yeah, of course I do, pal.”

Steve inhaled shakily. “I have something I need to take care of. Right now. Unless you’re not—”

Bucky felt too warm in his undershirt and sleep shorts. He couldn’t imagine how Steve felt. His stomach flipped nervously as his body caught up with the suggestion being made.

“You want—” he floundered, clearing his throat, “Want me to— Stay?”

Instead of answering, Steve curled closer so their foreheads touched. Bucky’s breath caught in his throat. He noticed Steve’s right shoulder shifting. Steve bit his lip and Bucky watched a shiver run up Steve’s body.

“Are you—”

“Yeah,” Steve’s voice was throaty and sleep-soft.

Bucky moved to lift the sheet and watch Steve’s hand (and rolling hips) in motion, but Steve kicked him in the shin.

“Don’t look!”

A startled laugh escaped Bucky which set Steve into giggles.

“I’ve never done this,” Steve admitted.

“Well, it looks like you know what you’re doing—”

Bucky earned another kick to the ankles. They were both grinning.

“What d’you need me to do?”

“Just— _shut up_.”

“That’s no fun,” Bucky teased, nosing behind Steve’s ear (he could feel Steve’s eyelashes on his cheek). “I didn’t realize this was such serious business.”

“I— Seriously, Bucky?”

He slipped his cold hand under Steve’s arm, fingers fit into the valleys of Steve’s ribs.

“I can’t move with you clinging to me.”

Bucky pressed a kiss between Steve’s eyebrows. Moved his arm to give Steve space. Contradicting himself, Steve leaned in closer and Bucky’s fingers brushed against Steve’s chest. Steve gasped out loud, his arm jerking.

“What was _that_ —” Bucky propped himself up on his elbow, left arm curled against his own stomach.

“ _Oh_ ,” Steve sighed and rolled onto his back, shirt tightening across his chest. His nipples were hard under the white cotton.

Bucky stuttered. Struggled to form the question he needed to ask. “You, uh, never gone for extra stimulation before?”

Steve levelled a glare at Bucky which had him laughing again.

“Of course I have,” Steve said, voice cracking into another breathy gasp. “Just— Sensitive. Really sensitive. _Oh_ , Bucky—”

Bucky settled back onto his side, curled against Steve, his hand hovering over Steve’s chest.

“Can I— Do you want me to—?”

Steve arched up into the touch as he agreed again and again and again.

Tucking his right elbow under his head, Bucky laid down on their pillows and let his fingers slide over the peaks of Steve’s nipples. He could have sworn he saw Steve’s eyes roll back into his head. It was quiet in the room save for the gasping inhales as Steve adjusted his grip and the rasp of Bucky’s palm plates against cotton as he rubbed Steve’s chest. He ducked his head to gently ( _so_ gently) kiss the tendon in Steve’s neck. Bucky let his lips linger on the skin. He inhaled and felt dizzy with the headiness of Steve’s sweat. He wanted to lift the sheets and smell and watch and feel—

“What’re you thinking about?” Bucky asked, letting his fingers circle idly.

Steve bit his lip. Nudged his forehead against Bucky’s.

“Kissing you,” he sighed. “Your mouth when housekeeping walked in on us in— in Melbourne.”

Bucky remembered that kiss. Remembered wandering hands, Steve’s soft tongue against his lips. Remembered the knock on the door and scrambling to pull the covers up past his naked hips while Steve covered his face with a pillow as housekeeping cracked open the door. In his ear, Steve gasped and it was so unlike the memory of the hotel that his hand tightened on Steve’s chest, plates realigning and whirring. A shiver ran up Steve’s side and his left knee jerked up suddenly, foot planted firmly on the mattress. He was red from hairline to throat and staring at Bucky with unfocused eyes.

Feeling warmth build in the familiar pool in his hips, Bucky curled close again and continued to mouth at Steve’s neck. “You make the sweetest noises.”

“It’s not—! I have my hands down my pants!” Steve protested indignantly.

His palm swept across Steve’s chest. Down his sternum. Followed the curve of Steve’s rib cage (rising and falling more quickly now). Bucky couldn’t stop the praise spilling from his lips as he felt the quivering of Steve’s stomach beneath his hand.

“‘S still nice,” Bucky sighed. “Tell me how it feels?”

Steve inhaled through a gasp, tipping his head back and exposing his throat. Bucky pressed kisses to Steve’s chest (the cotton warm and damp under his tongue), watching the blankets shift with the movement of Steve’s hands. Bucky’s hand slipped further down Steve’s stomach until he felt a shaky grip on his wrist. Bucky sat back to see Steve shake his head.

“Not— Not there,” Steve said. “Please.”

“Too much?” Bucky let his hand rest on Steve’s waist.

“Too much,” Steve agreed.

“Are you close?” Bucky whispered, smiling to himself at the way Steve huddled closer. “You’re gonna make a mess, under the covers like that.”

Steve’s breath hitched. His right shoulder rolling steadily, fist pumping where Bucky couldn’t see.

“I’ll take care of you, Stevie.” He promised, “I got you. I got— _There_ you go, Stevie, c’mon.”

Muscles clenching, Steve cried out and curled in on himself against Bucky’s side. Bucky felt the build up and when Steve actually came, stomach taut and hard, thighs trembling. He rubbed Steve’s stomach, kissing his forehead. Steve trembled with the aftershocks of muscle spasms before he relaxed, limp against Bucky’s side.

“I didn’t think this through very well,” Steve sighed, making a face.

“Do you need anything?” Bucky asked, already moving to grab tissues from the box on the bedside table. Steve rolled over and mumbled something into his shoulder. “Can’t hear you with your face in my armpit.”

“Don’t want you to leave—”

“But?” He passed the fistful of tissues over when Steve stopped abruptly. “Need some space?”

“Just for a minute,” Steve yawned.

Bucky cupped Steve’s head in his palm again, kissing him soundly on the forehead. He kicked his feet free from the covers (inconspicuously trying to adjust himself). Shuffled on bare feet to the bathroom to wash his face. Gargled with mouthwash. Blinked at himself in the mirror. His jaw was unshaven, the dark circles under his eyes were becoming prominent again after so many long away missions, his hair was getting long. By all accounts, he was a mess, but he was Steve’s mess. He dragged the damp washcloth over his face again thinking about what happened between them.

He jumped as Steve’s arms wound around his waist. Steve’s chin tucked against his shoulder.

“Thank you,” Steve said, nosing at Bucky’s jaw. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

He turned and looped his arms around Steve’s shoulders. Ducking his head, Steve hid his blushing face. Bucky felt Steve’s relief as a tangible weight releasing its grip around them. Foreheads together, swaying gently in the bathroom in their underwear at five o’clock in the morning, Bucky knew this could work. They were making it work.

**Author's Note:**

> For anyone wanting more information about asexuality, this is [the Asexuality Archive](http://www.asexualityarchive.com/), the resource that helped me when I was understanding my sexuality. It includes articles and information on everything from identifying as asexual, sex and masturbation, coming out, relationships, misconceptions, and activism in the community.


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